Ned and Tracy's Excellent Adventure
by DebbieB
Summary: Thirteen year old Ned Ashton spends a wild week touring the European countryside with his soon to be divorced mother, and learns more about them both than he ever thought possible. Part of the LiveJournal 100Situations Challenge.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Ned and Tracy's Excellent Adventure  
**Fandom: ** General Hospital  
**Characters: ** Tracy Quartermaine  
**Prompt: ** #23 False  
**Word Count: ** 14, 792 words  
**Rating: ** PG  
**Summary: ** After being suspended from his posh boarding school, Ned has a wild ride with his mother across the European countryside.  
**Author's Notes: ** I referenced this in my full-length story, "Cellar," a while back and always wanted to flesh out the story. Young!Ned and Young!Tracy, having a madcap "Auntie Mame" sort of adventure. How good is that? Wreaking havoc with canon, because I have no clue how old Ned was when his parents divorced. For my purposes, he was thirteen.

It was quite possibly the longest class Edward "Ned" Ashton had to sit to. It wasn't bad enough that Master Tewkesbury was the single most boring teacher in the history of the English language. That, he could handle. He could also handle the fact that English history was a tedious and boring subject only made worse by the old man's monotone lecture style. He could probably even handle the fact that, despite the fact that he worked like a dog, he'd probably not pass the course.

These were things that a 13-year-old could handle. Boring classes, dull teachers, and potential failure were just part of the adolescent experience.

But Tewkesbury was not just any old boring teacher. Tewkesbury was his nemesis, Brutus to his Caesar, Yosemite Sam to his Bugs Bunny. Old Tewk was the reason for his current house arrest, the reason for his current troubles, the reason for his utter and dismal lack of hope.

He stared blankly ahead as the bitter old coot rambled on about Sir Walter Raleigh, about the Armada, about the exploration of the New World under Elizabeth I. He really didn't care much about the troubles of 400 year old dead people; Ned Ashton had troubles of his own.

Like wondering which of the small army of relatives was finally going to answer the call from Headmaster Rodman. Like which representative of the noble house of Ashton would come to gather him up, drive him off to some dusty castle where he'd probably spend the rest of his short, miserable life in obscurity, like the Man in the Iron Mask, or Pete Best.

No, it wasn't bad enough that he'd gotten busted. Humiliated in front of his peers by Old Tewk. Suspended, his permanent record scarred for life.

No, that wasn't bad enough. The universe had another fun surprise in store for Ned Ashton—neither of his parents could be reached to carry him off to his disgrace.

Lord Larry was off somewhere, who knew where, and his American wife (the one they whispered about) was off elsewhere, most definitely not together like a proper married couple should be. Both had reputations as wild partiers. Both had reputations for causing trouble, embarrassing the good name of Ashton, and throwing money around like crazy whenever things required smoothing over.

Of course, neither of them could be found when Ned's troubles needed smoothing over, so the Headmaster's call had been routed from the butler to a paternal aunt to an accountant (!) and then over to his paternal grandmother. She had apparently sniffed at "The Boy" and his unacceptable behavior (no doubt a trait inherited from his mother's side of the family—you know, she's not high-born…just rich) and informed the headmaster that "she would handle the situation appropriately."

Two days had passed without any sort of appropriate handling, and Headmaster Rodman finally decided to place Ned back in class. He could wait out his shame while continuing his studies, rather than lolling about his dormitory cell being useless. Perhaps the presence of well-behaved young boys would be an example for young Edward.

So here he sat, in the stifling heat of the late spring afternoon, listening to Old Tewk drone on, knowing that at any minute, if he let himself be lulled into a false sense of security, the buzzard would swoop down on him and demand the dates for Francis Drake's circumnavigation of the globe, or the name of Queen Elizabeth's third ranked lady in waiting, or some other trivial thing designed to make him look like an idiot.

He was just about to believe the day would never end when a sudden slam made everyone in the room jump and gasp. In no time, all eyes were following Tewkesbury's stunned glance to the back of the room, where the door had been opened.

The first thing he noticed was a pair of impossibly high heels, attached to legs dressed in an extremely short white miniskirt. Ned got a sinking feeling as the person wearing the heels and miniskirt walked slowly, purposefully through the aisle of students. He didn't want to look, but he had to—like a gruesome car wreck he couldn't stop, Ned kept looking upwards, to the tightly-tailored white jacket, the red-painted lips, the enormous white hat. He could hear the whispers of the other boys in the classroom—some of them _very_ impressed with the sight the intruder presented. He made a note of which boys he was going to have to clobber if he ever got through this alive.

When she finally reached the instructor's podium, the woman had the full attention of the completely male classroom. Her heels made her sway gently as she walked, to the obvious appreciation of many of the 13-year-old boys in the room. Again, Ned took names for future retribution.

He knew who was under that hat, and he could feel the dread gathering in his stomach.

"I'm sorry, young lady," Tewkesbury said, his tone not so steady as the young woman stood just inches from him, her arms folded across her chest, invading his personal space like an expert. "All visitors must…ahem, proceed to the headmaster's office before coming into the classroom."

The woman put her hands on her slim hips for a moment before reaching up slowly to remove her hat. She tossed it on Tewks' desk with a defiant flare along with the matching handbag. "I'm not a visitor," she said in an unmistakably American accent. "I'm Lady Fucking Ashton, and I'm here to claim my son."

At that moment, Ned decided he was adopted. A changeling. Maybe somebody had switched him at the hospital when he was a baby. Because Ned Ashton was not about scenes. He just wanted to get through, be left alone, and maybe have some fun along the way.

On the other hand, Tracy Quartermaine Ashton, or Lady Fucking Ashton as she put it, was not about being invisible. She glanced over her shoulder, as if suddenly noticing the twenty-five pairs of hormonal adolescent eyes on her, and grinned at the boys broadly.

"Now, see _here_, Lady Ashton," Tewkesbury stammered, but Ned's mother cut him off by pressing a single gloved finger to his lips. He pulled back as if she were a snake, his expression of disgust clearly registering on the withered face.

"Oh, forgive me for my rudeness. Are you Archibald Tewkesbury? _The_ Archibald Tewkesbury?" She didn't bother keeping her voice low or discreet; she spoke as if she were in a nightclub or a party. "I got your letter, Tweekie!" She winked broadly. "Oh, we have lots and _lots_ to discuss, don't we?"

"Madam, this is completely inappropriate. Parents must register with the headmasters'…"

"No, you don't get it. I don't give a damn about your headmaster. I'll deal with him in a moment. You're the man of the hour, Tweekie, and you're all I care about." She said the last in a faux Marilyn Monroe voice, which garnered laughter from several of the boys. The laughter stopped abruptly, however, when Tewks fixed them with a severe glare. His worst, of course, was for Ned, who was trying desperately to sink underneath his desk.

She wasn't really doing this, was she? It wasn't really happening, was it? This was just one of those nightmares you could never wake up from, the kind that felt more real than reality itself. He watched in horror as Tewkesbury tried to get his mother to leave the room, argued with her in harsh, hushed tones, and then stormed out of the room.

Leaving….just Tracy…

Alone in a room with twenty-five, highly excitable, highly hormonal boys...

And Ned.

He stared wide-eyed as his mother stood in front of the class, hands on hips, watching Tewks storm out with an amused expression on her face. When he was gone, she cast an appraising glance around the room. "Well, now. It looks like I'm in charge for the moment." She grinned at the boys, who buzzed happily at the thought of this sexy young substitute teacher.

Ned cringed as his mother hopped on to the desk, crossing her long legs (much to everyone but his delight), and reached for the text book. "So what are we learning today, boys?" She opened the book to Tewkesbury's bookmark and read aloud, "_The Golden Age of England: Elizabethan Times_." She closed the book with a delighted expression on her face. "Ah! The Virgin Queen! My favorite."

She looked around the room and asked, in what Ned thought she assumed was a teacherly tone, "Now, can anyone tell me why Good Queen Bess was known as the Virgin Queen?"

Several hands shot into the air, and she smiled at each of them before choosing a boy in the front row. "You, the gorgeous young blond in the front row. What's your name, Sweetie?"

"Neville Fitzpatrick, Lady Ashton. But my friends call me Fitz."

Ned made a note to himself to destroy Fitz and everything he loved as soon as he was able to show his face in public again. His mother, seemingly oblivious to Ned's discomfort, smiled indulgently at Fitz.

"So, Fitz, why was she called the Virgin Queen?"

"Because she never married, Lady Ashton," Fitz answered in a dutiful tone.

"Oh, that's so cute." She looked expectantly at the other boys. "Can anyone tell me where young Fitz went wrong with his orthodox, yet completely incorrect answer?" She waited. "No? Oh, dear. This is what comes of all-male schools." She lowered her eyes, a wicked smile spreading across her features. "No, my dear young men. Elizabeth I was not called the Virgin Queen because she never married. Granted, in the current usage, adding a great deal of faith in her virtue, you might imply that being unmarried means a woman is still a virgin." She laughed at this, winking at Fitz. "If you're _really_ naïve, that is." She continued in a scholarly voice. "No, boys, you have to look at the original meaning of the word "virgin." It used to mean 'whole, untouched.' Complete in herself, like a goddess." Tracy's tone took on a sort of fierceness, as if she were no longer teaching a mocking history lesson about a long-dead British Queen. "You see, young Betty was quite the catch. Rich, powerful, the daughter of a king. Any man would want her, and most of them did. Look at who pursued her--Spanish religious fanatics, French fops, and every decrepit old Brit with a title and a tin pot castle to his name tried to get her to marry him."

Ned turned to the door, wondering when Tewksebury was going to get back and how much more trouble he could possibly get in at this point. He was already suspended. Did they still have torture chambers in the dungeons of England?

"But," his mother continued. "Betty Boop was smarter than your usual Elizabethan—no, wait, she wouldn't have been Elizabethan yet, would she? Who was her father—oh, lord, Henry the Eighth. Now, think about it, fellows. Do you really think little Lizzie was gonna look at Daddy's marital history and just want to _run_ down the aisle?"

They laughed, to Ned's relief. He wasn't a huge fan of British history, and these guys weren't his best friends at the moment—staring as they were at his mother's legs—but the English did to get a little protective of certain things, and Elizabeth I seemed to be up there on the list of protected national treasures.

"No, Elizabeth I figured out pretty quick that marriage was a dead-end street for her. I mean, what's in it for the woman?" A hard look came over Tracy's face. "The man gets the power, the freedom to travel, the dowry. And the woman—a princess, mind you—is reduced to the status of _wife_." Her voice wrapped around the word with disgust, as if she'd just eaten something old and rancid. "So, instead of giving up her power, _The Virgin Queen_ refused any and all proposals that came her way. Not outright, mind you. That would have been suicide. No, she just played one suitor against the other. 'Oh, Prince So-and-So, I just don't know,'" she mimicked in a very thick, very coy English accent. "'You're so big and strong and handsome, but do I really _love_ you?' Meanwhile, she kept the throne, the power, the money, and probably as many lovers as she could handle." Tracy laughed a low throaty chuckle at the shocked looks on the boys' faces. "Quite the role model she was, your Queen Elizabeth."

The sound of laughter and excited whispering ended abruptly when the door opened loudly to admit Master Tewkesbury and Headmaster Rodman. In a flash, it was all business again. "That will be quite enough, young men," Headmaster Rodman said in a low, disapproving voice. But his eyes were only for Tracy as the boys quickly swiveled back in their chairs, posture back to military straightness, eyes forward, faces long and seriously devoid of any hint of approval for Lady Ashton's shenanigans.

Rodman crossed the distance to the podium in a few long strides. "I've been waiting for three days, Lady Ashton, for your response."

All traces of humor were gone from his mother as well. She stood face to face with the Chatham School's imposing headmaster. And though the top of her head only reached his eyebrows, Tracy Quartermaine Ashton didn't seem even a bit intimidated as she stared him down, her eyes blazing with what some might call arrogance. "I was incommunicado."

"Shall we take this to my office?"

"Oh, _do_ let's," Tracy growled.

Rodman turned to the class with a look of undisguised displeasure on his face. "This class will be dismissed. You are to return to your dormitories where you are to read the balance of the current chapter. There will be an examination on the chapter when class resumes tomorrow. All but Edward Ashton are dismissed." He paused as the boys stood quickly and left the room as fast as possible while still maintaining the expected decorum.

Ned sat in his seat, his stomach in knots. He had already spent enough time in Rodman's office. Now he was going to get busted for his mother's bad behavior. It didn't make sense and it sure as hell didn't seem fair.

"Ned Ashton, stand up."

He rose without question, his training kicking in before he could stop himself. His mother stared at him in horror, and said, "Ned, sit down!" Confused, he looked from his mother to Rodman, unsure which of the contradictory commands carried more weight at the moment. After a moment, he sunk back into his chair. Rodman may have his present under lock and key, but Tracy would always be his mother. She simply had more time to make him miserable for insubordination.

Tracy seemed content with his submission and turned her ire back to Rodman. "My _son_ is not a dog to be commanded, do you understand?"

"Lady Ashton, despite your complete lack of respect for this institution and its rules, I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt." Rodman cast a disapproving glance at Ned. "I can understand that you might be upset, given the severity of your son's infractions."

"Oh, and while we're on that subject," Tracy reached for her purse and pulled out an envelope. "Let's discuss this, shall we?" She opened the letter as if she was going to read aloud, but Rodman stopped her.

"It is hardly appropriate for the child to hear the contents of confidential parent-instructor letters," he said, looking from Ned to Tewkesbury, who looked red and flustered and about ten minutes from death.

"I don't give a damn what is appropriate. I want Ned to hear what old Tweekie has to say about him." She shook off Rodman's arm and began to read aloud. "_My dear Lady Ashton,_" This got Tewkesbury a vicious smile from Ned's mother. "Bet you're regretting that courtesy right about now, aren't you, Tweekie? Anyway…_My dear Lady Ashton, It is with great regret that I write to inform you of your son's performance in my class. As you know, Ned's progress in British History is not improving as desired. His aptitude is below-par, and he seems uninterested in the subject. All attempts at motivation are met with disregard, and any suggestion that he might apply himself more diligently to the subject is summarily ignored. I feel that perhaps he is lacking in the proper encouragement from his parents. Most of our boys are legacies—as is your son. The Chatham School stresses tradition, with father handing down to son the understanding that great pride and honor must be shown to this institution. Perhaps the boy's father could be spoken to, so that he might offer his own narrative of Chatham pride to help the boy mend his ways. Being American-born, you may not understand the significance of this school, but I trust your husband—a Chatham alumnus—does. If something is not done soon, I fear that Edward will not complete his course of studies to the satisfaction of the school's requirements. I anticipate your immediate response to this most serious situation. With regards, Archibald Tewkesbury, Master of History, The Chatham School_." Tracy stopped for a breath, crushing the letter in a single hand and tossing the ball in the general direction of Tewkesbury. "That is so insulting on so many levels, I don't even know where to begin."

"I stand behind my words," Tewks said defiantly, knowing that the opinion of the school and its headmaster would be on his side.

Tracy waved a single hand, as if brushing off a particularly annoying fly, before turning back to Rodman. "I'd just finished reading this tripe when I got a call from my mother-in-law." She repeated it slowly, for emphasis. "_My. Mother. In. Law._ She was calling me to tell me that this _fine_ institution had seen fit to suspend my son for some minor infraction."

"Lady Ashton, your son falsified school documents."

"He signed my name to a stupid permission slip," Tracy argued. "He called me, telling me he'd forgotten to include the slip for the Stratford trip in his last letter. And I told him to just sign my proxy and not worry about it."

Ned stared at his mother. She was lying through her teeth!

"That is completely inappropriate," Rodman continued, believing her. "In a situation like that, you should have called my office to discuss alternative means of obtaining permission."

"Like I have all the time in the world to stay on the phone," she said, rolling her eyes. "Bottom line, the boy had my permission and that should be good enough for you."

"But…"

"But nothing. Are you going to say that my word is in doubt here?" She glared at him, her smaller frame suddenly seeming to tower above him. "Are you insinuating that Lady Ashton is lying?"

Her emphasis on the name Ashton--as in Ashton Hall, the Ashton Foundation, and the Ashton Scholarship--rang a bell in Rodham. It seemed to Ned that the headmaster almost visibly shrank back from her. "Certainly, Lady Ashton, I would not imply any such thing. We are all familiar with the good name of Ashton and the generosity the Ashton family has shown this school…_in the past_," he added significantly. "But the falsification of a school document is no light matter. This cannot be allowed to continue."

"So you suspend my son for doing as his mother told him? For being obedient and good, and treating his parent with respect?" She folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head. "These are the values The Chatham School teaches its students? This is the Chatham way?"

"No, no, _certainly_ not. We would never come between a parent's authority and the child. However, there are ways of doing these things and…"

Ned watched, amazed, as his mother just maneuvered Rodham into a corner. Within minutes, he'd gone from in command to groveling. It was an amazing sight, he had to admit.

"Tell me something, Headmaster," his mother said in a bored tone. "Is my son going to be suspended, or not?" She held her hand just inches from her face, examining her nail polish, making sure that the jewels on her wrists and fingers flashed in the sunlight that came through the window.

"Well, in light of this new information," Rodham coughed.

"Headmaster!"

"Oh, butt out, Tweekie," Tracy snapped, and then turned back to the headmaster, who was wiping his balding head with a handkerchief. "Now, where were we? Oh, yes, you were about to tell me if you were going to suspend the only son of Lord Ashton, much to the displeasure of the entire Ashton family, or not?"

"No," Rodman said firmly. "After serious reconsideration, I've decided that such an extreme punishment is uncalled for at this time. We will have to consider other, appropriate actio--"

"Excellent! I'm so glad we were able to straighten this out. I'm sure Lady Ashton the Elder will be thrilled to hear it." Tracy smiled sweetly, and then turned to Ned, who was still watching in amazement. He'd never seen _anybody_ work Old Rodman like that. "Now, Ned darling, why don't you take me to your room? We'll get your things packed and be out of here in no time."

"Out of here?" Ned asked.

"I told you, Lady Ashton. The suspension has been cancelled."

"Oh, I know." She smiled prettily. "I'm withdrawing my son from your school, Mr. Rodman, effective immediately. Neddie, on second thought, packing is menial labor. We'll just grab enough for the trip. These nice gentlemen can ship the rest of your things as soon as possible."

"But Lady Ashton…"

"Oh, and I'm sure you'll take the required steps to refund the balance of my son's tuition for the term, won't you?" She took Ned's arm and practically dragged him out of the classroom and into the hallway. Under her breath, she said, "Don't look back, kiddo. We're almost clear." She was laughing, and wrapped her arm around his shoulder as he led her to his dormitory. When they got there, she put her hand on the door knob, but stopped at the expression on her son's face. "What?"

He could hear a crowd of boys in his dormitory room. Ned paused, turning hesitantly to his mother. "I…erm…."

Tracy sighed, her hand dropping to her side as she gazed into her son's eyes with an understanding expression on her face. "Look, sweetie, I'm sorry about this." She seemed so different from the defiant woman in the classroom--her face was gentle and there was softness to her voice that had been missing earlier. "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you, and I'm sorry for the…" She stopped, a crooked smile quirking up at the side of her mouth. "I guess the rumors are true. I _don't_ think about anybody but myself." She reached out to brush his cheek with her fingertips. "I was so furious when I got that letter, and the call put me right over the edge. I just wanted to—I was so angry. I wanted to bust you out of this straight-jacket monstrosity of a school, and I wanted to be as loud and obnoxious about it as I could." She grinned at him. "You know how the Brits _hate_ loud and obnoxious. I guess I didn't think about how my little stunt in there might embarrass you."

He faltered for a moment. At any other time, he would have been thrilled with the idea of being busted out of Chatham. But now, faced with leaving the school that had been his home for years… "It was good of you to defend me, Mother," he said formally.

"Mom," she corrected softly. "You're not 100 British yet, darling."

"Yes, Mom," he said. "Look, there's going to be a lot of fellows in there and…."

"You don't want your crazy mother causing another scene?" She looked down at her skirt. "Believe me. I can't wait to get out of this ridiculous outfit."

He raised his eyebrows. He'd not spent enough time with his mother to know how she normally dressed. "Oh, I…"

She laughed at his confused expression, mussing his hair playfully. "You can't imagine I dress like _this_ all the time, do you?" She laughed again when he nodded shyly. "Baby, Lesson One in Tracy Quartermaine's Rules of War—when going into battle, wear your battle gear." Reaching into her purse, she winked at him. "Go say goodbye to your friends, Ned." She handed him a business card. "Here's an address they can write to you. Anywhere you are, any time, this will get forwarded." She kissed the top of his head and pushed him toward the door.

Ned breathed in deeply, and opened the door. There were about five boys lounging on the beds, talking animatedly. They stopped, dead silent, when he entered the room.

"Uh…" he said, not knowing what to say.

"Ashton, that was bloody _brilliant_!" This was from Elliot Pierce-Thomas. He was the son of one of the top bankers in Britain, and wore his money like a tailored suit. He towered over the rest of the boys at almost six feet tall, with bushy black hair that defied the school rules with its mere existence. "Best fun ever!"

"Truly ace, Ned," John Lewis added from his vantage point—upside down on the bed, feet on the wall, head at the foot. "Your mum was a riot!"

"Is she staying?"

"Yeah, she could hire on as a teacher here…."

Ned shook his head, a small grin on his face. He was going to miss them, but not all that much. He went to the cupboard to get his bag—the small one for weekend trips. "Sorry, mates. Not going to happen." He started throwing things in his case—he had no idea what to pack for, so he just threw stuff in randomly.

"She couldn't talk the old sod out of it, eh? Bad luck, Ned."

"Bollocks," John said under his breath.

"No, she talked him out of it," Ned said. "Right before she withdrew me from school." He shut the case, shrugged, and handed the card to Elliot. "Here's where you can reach me, if you're interested." He quickly grabbed his guitar case from the cupboard and headed out the door.

The boys were open-mouthed, silent, as he left. It was only a moment before the lot of them piled out of the room, hurrying to catch up with Ned and his mother as they headed for the car park.

Buoyancy had taken over Ned, a lightness so overwhelming and powerful that he didn't even mind that they were staring at his mother's legs as they formed their own little parade that ended right in front of the most amazingly beautiful car he'd ever seen.

Tracy went over to the passenger side, posing like a fashion model next to a cherry red Mustang convertible. White leather interior, roof down. She smiled broadly, nodding pointedly in the direction of his friends before saying in a gently teasing tone, "Wanna drive, Ned?"

They all laughed, including Ned, who was just about beside himself with lust for the car. "Is it yours, or is it a hire?"

"I _rented_ it for the trip," she said pointedly as she grabbed his bag and looked at the gaggle of gawking school boys. It was hard to tell which one garnered more attention—the hot car or the sexy brunette driving it. "Which one of you big strong men would like to help me out?" She noticed the guitar case, apparently for first time. "Ned, I didn't know you played the guitar!"

Elliot was there in a heartbeat. "I'll get those in the boot for you, Lady Ashton," he said, practically tripping on himself to catch the keys she tossed to him. While he was putting away Ned's bag and the guitar, Tracy said to the boys, "I suppose I should apologize for making such a fuss during your history class." She grinned knowingly. "I know you were just riveted before I went in and messed it all up."

They laughed, with several "not at alls" and "please come any times" thrown in for good measure. Elliot was back in a moment, handing her the keys. From his height, he could actually look down at her. "That was the most fun we've had in ages, Lady Ashton," he said breathlessly.

"Well, aren't you boys all so sweet?" She turned to her son, who was just too dazed and amazed at this point to even comment. "Ned, darling, once we've got you settled in, we're going to have to invite your friends over for a weekend, aren't we?"

He nodded, not saying a word.

Tracy was enjoying herself, enjoying the attention she attracted with her mere existence. And Ned was not even the slightest bit embarrassed anymore. It was a game, an adventure. And he was leaving this miserable place for good. Granted, the next boarding school might not be any better, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about Tewkesbury anymore. He pushed forward a bit, nudging past the boys who were extending their hands to shake Tracy's. "Mother, perhaps we should begin?"

"Oh, yes. Besides, I'm sure you boys will have to return to class soon." There were groans all about, but she smiled indulgently. "Now, we'll all have a grand time when you come to visit, won't we? You be sure to keep in touch with Ned, because believe me—good friends are a treasure." And with that, she eased through the crowd over to the driver's side. It was an American car, so she had to go around to the left, which Ned found strange and exhilarating all at once.

There were many pats on the back, hands squeezing shoulders, as Ned eased into the passenger seat of the Mustang. His friends looked at him with admiration, with jealousy even.

It had turned into quite possibly the best day of his life.

End Part One

Written for the lj user"100situations" Challenge.

11


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Ned and Tracy's Excellent Adventure  
**Fandom: ** General Hospital  
**Characters: ** Tracy Quartermaine  
**Prompt: ** #23 False  
**Word Count: ** 14, 792 words  
**Rating: ** PG  
**Summary: ** After being suspended from his posh boarding school, Ned has a wild ride with his mother across the European countryside.  
**Author's Notes: ** I referenced this in my full-length story, "Cellar," a while back and always wanted to flesh out the story. Young!Ned and Young!Tracy, having a madcap "Auntie Mame" sort of adventure. How good is that? Wreaking havoc with canon, because I have no clue how old Ned was when his parents divorced. For my purposes, he was thirteen.

They were already out on the main motorway by the time he came down from the high. His mother was watching the road, but turned every so often to check on him. She was quiet, content to let him enjoy the buzz of excitement caused by his spectacular departure from The Chatham School.

It was several minutes before the silence was broken, and then it was Ned who spoke first. "So," he asked tentatively. "How much trouble am I really in?"

Tracy shot him a glance. "For _falsifying_ my name?" She mocked the word for its stodgy sound and lifted an eyebrow expectantly at her son. The look on her face was somber, all joking gone, as if this were suddenly not a game anymore.

"Yeah." Ned felt his life crumbling around him again. In all the excitement, he'd forgotten he'd been caught in an act of complete disregard for the rules. Sure, his mum had covered for him with Rodham, but that could easily have been to protect the family's reputation.

She would be right in punishing him, and he had no experience at all with how strict his mother could be in situations like this. Underneath that sunny smile and carefree demeanor, she could be an ogre. She could send him off to the wilds of Switzerland, never to be seen again by civilized eyes. She could--she could… Ned gulped. "I'm terribly sorry, Mother," he said formally. "I shouldn't have done it, and I apologize for the inconvenience and embarrassment it caused you." Better safe than sorry, he decided not to plead his case but to fall upon her mercy. She'd seemed fairly kind, in her own bizarre way.

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression dark and scolding, and then completely lost her demeanor, laughing gaily as she checked the mirror. "Well, so much for that act of parental responsibility," she said brightly. "Okay, so I'm not thrilled about the call I got from your grandmother. She acted as if you had stolen the Crown Jewels. Personally, I think they were overreacting. It was just a permission slip, and for something you knew I would approve anyway. You could have called me—" She stopped, a guilty expression crossing her face. "Did you try to call me?"

He nodded glumly.

"Oh, damn." She shook her head. "I've been pretty hard to reach lately, haven't I?" It wasn't a question so much as a self-indictment. "Well, I can't blame you for that, can I?" She shrugged. "You obviously didn't do a good job of it, if it was so easily caught," she added. "If you're gonna break the rules, you might as well do a good job of it. But I suppose you've learned your lesson, haven't you?"

Ned was no fool. He mustered his most earnest, innocent expression. "Absolutely, Mother," he said. "I shall never, ever break the rules again."

She narrowed her eyes at him, slowed the car, and pulled over onto the side of the road. "Hold it, Freddie Bartholomew. Lesson Two from Tracy Quartermaine's Rules of War, son. Do not try to play your mother." When he gulped, guilty, she chuckled. "It's one thing to get things over on your doltish teachers. But hear me and hear me well, Edward Quartermaine Ashton. You will _never_ get one over on me. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever." She paused for effect, then the corner of her mouth turned upward slightly. "Got it?"

He nodded. "Got it."

And that, it appeared, was the end of the discussion of his brief, unsuccessful career in forgery.

"So, how do you like the flashy ride?" Tracy stretched her right arm out on the seat between them. It was so odd to have the wheel on the left side, but she seemed perfectly comfortable driving on the wrong side of the car.

"It's brill, Mum."

"Oh, dear _gawd_," she said, rolling her eyes. "I'm going to have to send you to Brooklyn for a _month _to counteract all this British slang you've got." She flashed him a dazzling smile. "Get that bag out of the back seat, Baby," she said. "You're the son of an American, Ned. And no American boy would ever say that something was _brill_." She took the bag from him, placing it on the seat between them. It was heavy and clumsy– there were dozens of small objects clattering around it, but Ned thought it best not to peek. "A thirteen year old American boy, when faced with the hottest car ever made in this or any lifetime would turn to his _Mom_ and say, 'That's cool, Mom.'" She chuckled at his dazed expression. "Now, repeat after me, young man. 'That's cool, Mom.'"

He had to laugh. It was utterly absurd. "That's cool, Mom," he said obediently, liking the feel of the words on his tongue. "Do you really hate England so much, then?" He didn't know why he asked it, wished he hadn't when he saw the sad look on her face.

She leaned back, her head facing skyward for a long moment before she spoke. "Wow. Yeah, I guess that's how I'm coming across, isn't it?" She turned to face him. "I guess I'm so mad at your father right now that I hate pretty much anything that reminds me of him." She winced, catching herself. "Except of course for you. You, my darling boy, may be part Ashton, but you're all Quartermaine. And I could never hate you." She touched his chin, then snapped out of it. "Now, because a Quartermaine demands the very finest in all things, you will take note of the lovely amenities provided for in this fine American vehicle. Notably, the stereo cassette player." She winked. "I had to call four rentals before I found a car that had one. And," she opened the bag. "One little side-trip to the record store later, and we have all the choices of great music we can ask for."

His eyes grew wide as the looked into the bag. There were dozens of cassettes in there—practically every artist imaginable. The Beach Boys. The Shirelles. Stevie Wonder. Bob Dylan. The Jackson 5. She'd even bought some of the newer groups, like Blondie, Earth, Wind & Fire, Billy Joel, and The Commodores. "What," he said. "No Elvis?"

She rolled her eyes and laughed out loud. "Vastly overrated as a singer," she said, reaching for _Buddy Holly: A Rock & Roll Collection_, which she popped into the player. "And while we're at it, no British Invasion on this road trip. No Beatles. No Rolling Stones or Rod Stuart or Elton John or Sex Pistols." She drew in a deep breath as if to clear her head. "No, dear, the soundtrack for this journey will be a convergence of great American music, courtesy of the Bowden Family Record store in London."

He stared at the pile of cassettes on the seat between them. "We'll never have time to listen to all those before we get to Grandmother's," he said.

Tracy turned to him, a wicked expression crossing her face. "We're not going to your grandmother's, Ned."

"We're not?"

"Nope." She revved the engine, shifting the gear stick and merging back onto the road. "I have a little place I'm renting in Salzburg." She shook her hair, letting it flow in the breeze as they drove. "Of course, there's no point in hurrying things. Why not take a little tour on the way, right?" She patted the steering wheel purposefully. "We're going to drive this baby all the way to the White Cliffs of Dover and then cross the Channel into France for a few days. We get a new car in Calais and head straight for Paris. How's your French, Baby?"

He stared at her, stunned. They weren't going to Ashton Manor? This was impossible. This was unheard of. "Um…I took a few terms of French." He didn't remember a word of it, honestly.

Tracy smiled indulgently as she floored the accelerator, setting the tone for the trip. "Well, don't worry about it, kiddo. We'll practice on the drive." She nodded her head in time to the music.

Buddy and The Crickets were warbling on in that raw, uncluttered style that made _Peggy Sue_ a classic. He found himself listening to the chords, picking them out with his left hand as his right hand mimed the fierce, powerful strum pattern of the lead guitar. It was massively primal, this rough, unrefined rock and roll, this creation of youth and energy and passion. He found himself singing along to songs recorded by this man who'd died before he was born, a man who'd not been much older than himself when he started changing the universe with his music.

Tracy watched him for a moment, and then asked thoughtfully, "How long have you had that guitar, Ned?"

He felt suddenly exposed, as if he'd been keeping a secret from her or something. It wasn't as if he'd been trying to hide the thing—it's just that it never came up in their telephone conversations. "About a year, Mum. I saved up my allowance and bought it last August."

"Do you practice much?"

"Oh, every single day," he said fervently. "Drove my mates mad with it—" He caught her expression and corrected himself. "I really annoyed my friends…_Mom_, but I don't care. I love it. And I'm going to be great at it someday."

She nodded, an odd look in her eyes, before saying, "That's my little Quartermaine. Your grandfather always said there's no point in doing anything if you're not going to be the best at what you do."

That seemed enough for her, and they rode on in silence for a while. Minutes stretched out, and Ned began to count the time in terms of the cassettes they listened to. Buddy Holly gave way to Carole King's _Tapestry_ which then led into Fleetwood Mac's _Rumours_. It was an eclectic ride, great music, beautiful scenery. Tracy seemed content to take the most circuitous route possible, stopping at anything that caught her fancy, little shops and farms and quaint little villages anybody else would have ignored. Every so often, she would give his hand a tight squeeze, as if to make sure he was still there.

She didn't sing along to the music as he did, although she did nod her head in perfect time to the beat. She seemed downright amused that he knew the words to almost all the songs, and teased him a bit about it. Once or twice, he caught her mouthing along. Even if she never made a sound, it was obvious she knew every single word, too.

When they pulled in Folkestone, just a few miles from the Channel, Billy Joel was singing _Piano Man_, and they were famished. They found a farm with a roadside stand selling produce, and loaded up on fresh fruits, dark heavy bread, fresh butter, and a bottle of home-made honey mead. They pulled off the road overlooking the Channel, watching the pounding waves as they tore into the bread and fruit, eating with their hands, laughing at each other's jokes, laughing about the expression on old Tewks' face when Hurricane Tracy had blown into the room.

It was very likely the best meal he'd ever eaten, he guessed as he leaned back against the car seat and dozed in the late afternoon sun. It would be just a few moments before they'd have to leave the car off in Dover. Soon after that, they'd be crowded on to a ferry to Calais, where they'd hire a new car to take them the rest of the journey.

But right now, he was peaceful. His stomach was full and the radio was playing some of the best music ever recorded. He sang along at the top of his lungs, enjoying the smile his mother gave him when he hit a particularly difficult note, or added his own little flourish to an otherwise bland musical riff.

He knew that it couldn't last, of course. Sooner or later, he'd be back in school, bored and miserable with the rest of the drones. But right now, he was king of the world, and that was just fine by Ned.

It was hours before they were on the road in earnest again—the crossing, hiring the new car, getting everything organized with the passports and luggage. And Tracy insisted the car they rented—a very nice Lincoln Continental—met her standards. That meant power steering, automatic transmission, air conditioning, and of course, a great stereo with a cassette player.

They were about half an hour out of Calais when the sun went down, and Ned was exhausted. He didn't know how long it would take to get to Paris. He didn't care. He dozed on and off, his head resting against the seat.

If his mother was tired, she didn't show it. She was in her own world now, and she just drove on, silently, determined, he supposed.

She was nothing like he'd expected. To hear Grandmother Ashton talk, Tracy Quartermaine Ashton was the picture of irresponsible youth, an ugly American in the truest sense of the word. He'd seen nothing of the sort today, after that raucous scene for the benefit of "Tweekie" and Old Rodham. She'd spoken her French flawlessly, charmed everyone they'd met, and had no trouble at all dealing with the various classes of people they'd encountered. She was firm but polite to servers, and not intimidated at all by anyone who seemed to be of a higher social status. To Ned's eyes, she was just an all about decent person.

He wondered what she'd done to make Grandmother Ashton hate her so much.

Maybe Grandmother Ashton just hated her because she wanted to, he thought sleepily. There was an old song playing on the radio, Nat King Cole, he thought from the sound of it. _A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square_. He was just about to drift off to sleep when he heard something amazing.

"_I may be right, I may be wrong, _

_But I'm perfectly willing to swear _

_That when you turned and smiled at me _

_A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square._"

It was Tracy, her voice soft and sweet, a tentative thing. He knew in his gut that she thought he was asleep, that he wouldn't hear her. He held his breath, knowing if he even so much as breathed wrong, she would stop, that it would stop. He wanted to hear more.

"_The moon that lingered over London town, _

_Poor puzzled moon, he wore a frown. _

_How could he know we two were so in love? _

_The whole darn world seemed upside down._

_The streets of town were paved with stars; _

_It was such a romantic affair. _

_And, as we kissed and said 'goodnight', _

_A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square_."

Her voice was nothing that would ever change lives. She wobbled a little on the high notes, and while her middle range was strongest, she was afraid of it. He could tell, just as he always knew when to strum rather than pick a song, or when to transpose to a higher or lower key, despite what the music said. He could tell that she was afraid of her own voice, and that just made him so sad.

She was singing him a lullaby, and she didn't even know it.

She was singing him a love song, and the beauty of the music embarrassed her.

At thirteen, Ned knew quite a bit about love, and loss, and the hard realities of the world. He knew that not everything always went your way. He knew that girls he fancied didn't always fancy him back, or that they fancied other fellows just a little bit more. He knew that love didn't always work out.

He wondered if this was "their song," his mum and dad's. He knew they were getting a divorce, knew that it wasn't pleasant. His grandmother hadn't considered it appropriate to share the details, of course, and placed most of the blame on his mother, however subtly so.

But listening to her now, her voice all soft and sad and sweet, Ned knew in his heart that this divorce wasn't Tracy's idea. This change in her life was breaking her heart, and all that gung-ho bravado of hers was just an act.

He made a point of stretching, yawning in an obvious way. With a motion he hoped would remind her of his childhood, he reached out for her "in his sleep" and snuggled into her arms.

The song was over anyway, and he fell asleep in her arms, her free hand stroking his hair as they drove off through the night to Paris.

The hotel restaurant was closed when they finally reached their hotel. It wasn't that late, really, his mother insisted and spoke to the concierge on the phone in flawless, rapid-fire French. She might play the debutante sometimes, Ned thought sleepily, but she could turn on the brains really quick when necessary.

She turned to him, having exhausted his translation abilities after the first few sentences. "We're in luck. There's a little Chinese place around the corner that delivers until midnight." She winked at him as they sat cross-legged on her bed. His stuff was tossed on his bed in the other part of the suite, forgotten for now as they wrestled with how to get some grub in their system.

"I thought Paris was the city that never sleeps."

"That's New York," she laughed, reading the number she'd scribbled off on the hotel stationery and punching it into the phone. "Paris is the City of Lights." She nodded when the restaurant picked up and rattled off a quick order. It was funny hearing her order the Chinese items in French with an American accent. She caught him giggling and snuck out a hand to tickle him, which had him rolling with laughter by the time she hung up.

By the time the food arrived, they'd managed to calm down. His mom had ordered enough to feed an army, and they spread the little red and white boxes around them, taking bits of this and bobs of that until their plates were covered with items both exotic and enticing to his English-bred palate.

Tracy insisted they eat only with chopsticks, which was a problem since he'd never learned to use them. But she placed her hand over his, guiding his fingers into the proper stance and grip, showing him how to balance them, how to grab the bigger pieces and balance the smaller one on top.

More sooner than later, he was eating like a pro, enjoying the spicy flavors and unusual textures. He watched as his mother ate her kung pao chicken daintily, not even flinching over the heat of the peppers as she continued her monologue, begun back in the car when they'd first arrived.

"So, I'm thinking the Arc de Triomphe in the morning and Notre Dame in the afternoon. Then we can spend the entire day after tomorrow at the Louvre—no sense rushing that." She picked up a dumpling from the box to her left and nibbled a bit off the end of it. "I hate when people go there, run through the entire museum just to gawk at that damned _Mona Lisa_ for ten seconds, and then leave." She rolled her eyes in a superior manner. "There's so much more to art than some moderately attractive, transvestite self-portrait of Leonardo da Vinci. You did know that he based the picture on his own image, didn't you?"

Ned shook his head to the negative and concentrated on balancing the rice on his chopsticks. It was a challenge, and he had satisfied his hunger enough to enjoy the trick of working with the chopsticks now. "No, ma'am," he said absently.

"And did you know that _American Gothic_ is virtually _littered_ with subliminal sexual imagery?" she asked, putting the dumpling down on her plate as he continued to struggle with his food, ignoring her.

"Uh-huh…" He was fighting with a slice of carrot now, and the carrot was winning.

"And that _The Blue Boy_ is actually a Communist manipulation of the Dutch Masters that uses hypnotic suggestion to create a race of zombies?"

"Uh-huh…" He dropped the carrot, staring up at her. "Huh?"

Tracy laughed, taking the chopsticks from his hand and laying them across his plate. "You really should listen to the question you're answering before you answer it, darling."

He smiled sheepishly, blushing.

"More into music than art, I take it?" she said, stretching back on the bed carefully, so as not to disturb the half-filled cartons of food.

"Yeah, I guess," he said. He wasn't really hungry anymore. It was enough just to get some food in his stomach and get some rest. The hotel was amazing—his mother's room alone was twice the size of the dormitory room he'd shared with another boy. It had its own bathroom, a huge color television, and a balcony that overlooked the Champs-Elysées. He yawned, blinking hard.

"How about we clear all this stuff and get some sleep?" she said, beginning to stack the cartons. "We don't have to plan everything tonight. We can play it by ear."

He got most of the food cleared away and stacked on the tray in the living room before toddling off to his bed. He was really tired, and his bed looked so inviting. His mother was in just a few minutes behind him.

She'd changed into a long rose-colored gown with a matching robe. She was barefoot, and her hair hung softly around her shoulders. She smelled wonderful as she leaned over to kiss him gently on the forehead. "Good night, my little Pooh Bear."

He grimaced. "Mother, I'm not three anymore."

"You'll always be three years old to me, darling," she said wistfully, kissing him again and adjusting the blanket around his shoulders carefully. "Sleep well, my little prince, and dream happy dreams."

Then she was gone, like a dream at sunrise, and the only thing convincing Ned that the entire day hadn't been a hallucination was the feel of the blanket around his shoulders and the lingering scent of her perfume in the air.

He didn't know what time it was when he awoke. It had to be late because the sounds of the city had dimmed outside, and he felt sluggish, as if he'd been sleeping for several hours. He made his way clumsily out of his bedroom, through the common area of the suite that adjoined his room to the one his mother occupied.

He was looking for the loo, having a hard time of it because he was sleepy and confused.

He didn't mean to walk in on her, nor did he intend to eavesdrop on her conversation.

"Yes, I'm keeping him with me," his mother was saying into the phone. Her voice was hard, angry and hurt and cold. "I don't care what your mother says. That school was stifling him….no, _no_, I don't have to ask her permission." There was a slight hesitation before he realized who his mother was speaking with, before he realized that the voice on the other end of the line was his father. "You can threaten all you want, Larry," she was saying. "He's staying with me."

He wondered at that, wondered exactly what she meant by 'staying with me.' Did she mean that she would choose his next school? Or that he would actually _live_ with her?

"Look, you're just doing this to be spiteful. You didn't even file for custody. You didn't even _mention_ custody until I showed an interest."

Ned knew he shouldn't be listening to this. He knew instinctively that this was one of those things that could send a healthy person into analysis for a decade. But he stayed there, hidden in the shadows of the doorway, glued to the drama unfolding before him.

"Don't you _dare_ even try anything like that, Larry Ashton. I swear to you, if you force my hand, I will crucify you. You don't have a leg to stand on in this divorce, and you know it. My son is going to grow up the way I choose, not the way your mother chooses or your dead Uncle Henry or whatever decrepit old Ashton ancestor you want to invoke chooses. He's a Quartermaine, too. And you know damned well what happens when a Quartermaine is cornered, Larry. You know damned well what I'm capable of if you threaten to take my kid from me."

His eyebrows went up. What _was_ his mother capable of doing, if she felt threatened enough? His mind went straight to the sordid movies he and his friends snuck into at the cinema on weekends—tales of corruption and murder and all sorts of vice, obviously not intended for younger audiences. He wondered what went on with his parents, how much hatred they'd managed to build up between them.

It hit him, hard between the eyes, that they were really going to do it, that this time they were really going to split up and make it stick.

They'd never been what he'd considered a close family, and he'd spent most of his life hearing tales of their legendary fights. But he never really thought about what it would mean to be the product of a divorced family.

Words like "custody" rang harshly in his ear. What would happen to him when they signed on the dotted line? Would he be carted off to some boarding school in Switzerland, forgotten by both of them? Would she drag him back to America, this weird place he'd read about but had never seen, to grandparents who sent him money every birthday and holiday but probably wouldn't recognize him in a police line-up without a photo to guide them?

Would he never see his father again? Or if Larry got custody, would he lose his mother?

He didn't even notice that she'd hung up the phone now. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he jumped when he felt her arms around her, felt her brushing the tears from his cheeks. She knelt down next to him, her arms tight around his shoulders.

"Baby," she whispered into his hair as he buried his head into her shoulders, crying for all his worth like a little boy. "Baby, I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have heard all that." She was kissing him, holding him, cooing soft words of encouragement into his ear. "It's not so bad, Pooh Bear," she said, rocking him gently against her. "We'll work it out somehow, your father and I. We won't let you get torn up in the middle of all this mess."

"I'm sorry," he choked out, feeling like an idiot, feeling weak and stupid and juvenile. He wanted her to be proud of him. He wanted to be a Quartermaine, like she said. But he didn't know what being a Quartermaine meant, and he was too afraid to ask. So he just wept, and didn't argue when she had him snuggle up next to her in the bed. She was warm and safe, and he needed warm and safe right now. It might be a three-year-old thing to do, but he didn't care as he fell asleep in his mother's arms, his pillow damp with tears, his face hot and puffy from the strain of sobbing.

She never said a word about it to him in the morning, never chastised him for his tears. She just showed him Paris in all its glory, stopping every so often to hug him, or kiss the top of his head.

It was a marvelous trip, despite the fact that he knew it would all end too soon.

End Part Two

Written for the lj user"100situations" Challenge.

10


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Ned and Tracy's Excellent Adventure  
**Fandom: ** General Hospital  
**Characters: ** Tracy Quartermaine  
**Prompt: ** #23 False  
**Word Count: ** 14, 792 words  
**Rating: ** PG  
**Summary: ** After being suspended from his posh boarding school, Ned has a wild ride with his mother across the European countryside.  
**Author's Notes: ** I referenced this in my full-length story, "Cellar," a while back and always wanted to flesh out the story. Young!Ned and Young!Tracy, having a madcap "Auntie Mame" sort of adventure. How good is that? Wreaking havoc with canon, because I have no clue how old Ned was when his parents divorced. For my purposes, he was thirteen.

Paris went in a blur, and Zurich wasn't much more coherent. She'd insisted they return to Switzerland in the winter when he could learn to ski like a proper gentleman, then gorged themselves on chocolate to the point that they had to return to the hotel and sleep off their tummy aches. They sang their way through Luxembourg, with The Beach Boys doing the honor of representing American pop music as they drove through the small European country.

It wasn't until Munich that the subject of school, and that terrifying subtext of custody, came back into the conversation. They were in a little café eating schnitzel and spaetzel while people-watching when he asked her, quite suddenly and without precedent, where he'd be going to school.

She paused, looking down at her plate, and then set her fork down. "Well, I suppose that we'll just have to figure that out," she said. She looked at her nails for a moment before lifting her eyes to fix them on him. "What do you have in mind?"

He was shocked by the question. In his experience, it wasn't really something anyone ever asked a child. He'd never even considered the question, honestly. He'd just assumed he'd go where he was sent, without argument or question. "I, erm, don't know."

She smiled crookedly, nodding. "Good a place to start as anywhere." She took a bite of schnitzel, pondering it for a moment. "Well, I know there are some good schools in Salzburg. I'm not sure if I intend to settle there, though. It's charming, but limited. Ooh, remind me to show you the house where Mozart was born. They have tours. You'll love it."

"Thank you," he said, trying to wrap his mind around the concept that he was being given the opportunity to have a say in his own education. It was unreal.

"I'm thinking something maybe a bit more progressive than Chatham, although that would basically be _anything_ with desks," she added in a catty tone. "We might even consider Manhattan, if you like." She smiled, a wistful look crossing her face as she continued. "Oh, Ned, you'd adore Manhattan. There are more things to do in one city block in Manhattan than in all of—" She paused, trying to find a comparison, laughing when she couldn't. "It's just amazing. And there's no reason that you couldn't also pursue your music while you study. I mean, as a hobby. New York is a Mecca for talent, and a great place for you to…what?" She stopped, seeing the look in his eyes. "Wow," she said sympathetically. "This is completely meaningless to you, isn't it?"

He shrugged. He didn't want to think about it, really. He didn't want to think what would happen if she took him back to the U.S. with him, back to her family that he barely knew, away from everything he understood. "It sounds exciting," he offered lamely.

"It sounds like a foreign country," she corrected. Her voice had lost its air of enthusiasm in favor of a more delicate, understanding tone. "It's home to me, but you—you don't know anything about it." She sounded so homesick, and Ned felt ten times the heel for making her feel guilty about it. It wasn't her fault that he was stuck in the middle. "We don't have to make a decision now, Ned," she said. "But I promise you, whatever we choose, your feelings will be taken into consideration."

Something occurred to him, and he furrowed his brow. "Why does it matter that you don't want to settle in Salzburg?" he asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

He picked up a piece of spaetzel with his fork and ate it thoughtfully. "A moment ago, you said something about the schools in Salzburg, and that you didn't think it would work because you didn't want to stay there."

Tracy grinned. "You mean, am I considering _not_ sending you to a boarding school?"

His heart leapt into his throat. He hadn't really been considering it. It was such a foreign concept to him, such an impossibility that he hadn't even dreamed of it. He couldn't speak. He just nodded weakly.

"Well, that thought had definitely occurred to me," she said, putting her hand over his. When he looked up, there was such love in her eyes that it surprised him. "I spent my whole life in boarding schools, Baby. I hated them. I hated the dormitories, the classes, the feeling that—" She frowned. "The feeling of being forgotten by my family. When you were old enough, I let myself be bullied into putting you in that horrible Chatham place. I've regretted that decision ever since." She took a sip of her wine, steadying herself. "Now that your father and his family are not pulling all the strings, I'm thinking maybe a change is in order." She put her glass down, still watching him, gauging his reactions, her face expectant and almost shy. "Do you think you might want to do that, Ned? Live with me for a while? Go to a regular school, and maybe…" The words choked in her throat slightly. "Be a regular family?"

He nodded, still unable to speak, but clutched her hand tightly in his. It would be wonderful, he thought. Being a real family….

His mother nodded. "Okay, then. Why not? I mean, we've got money, which means we've got options. Why not try this whole 'normal' thing?" She laughed, a musical, graceful laugh that had him giddy with the sound of it. In the whole wide world, Ned thought at that moment, there was nothing more beautiful in the world than his mother's laugh.

Once they hit the road again, she refused to take the German highways, calling the Autobahn a Disneyland for lunatics and bad drivers. Instead, they took a winding path on older roads through the eastern part of Germany towards the Austrian border. When they stopped for a moment outside of Rosenheim, Ned took his guitar out of the trunk. They drove on in relative silence, and he strummed gently, working out his fingerings, finding peace in the simple act of forming the chords, creating the rhythms.

There was something that happened to him when he played, something mesmerizing and powerful, like nothing else mattered. Not his parents' divorce, not the school situation--nothing at all existed but the notes he was playing, the sounds the instrument made under his hands.

He didn't notice his mother watching until he'd been humming for a while. It was just a stupid little warm-up thing he'd made up, but her face was transfixed, stunned, amazed. He blushed, lowering his eyes, embarrassed by the look in her eyes. "What?" he said, acting for all the world like a thirteen-year-old boy.

She swallowed, shaking her head slightly as if to clear away cobwebs. "What was that you were humming?" she asked. "I didn't recognize the tune."

His mother, despite her protestations to the contrary, was a veritable encyclopedia of music. There wasn't a genre she didn't like, or an artist she didn't have an opinion on. He suspected she didn't really publicize the fact. From what he could gather, the arts weren't really all that important to the Quartermaines, unless you were donating millions to 'support' them. "It's just a stupid thing I play around with," he murmured.

She cocked her head slightly. After several days of travel, she was starting to show her exhaustion, although she always looked perfectly put together. It was only around her eyes, and maybe around the mouth, that he could see her getting tired. "You _wrote_ that?"

He nodded, shrugging.

There was a long silence that followed, awkward and pregnant with unspoken words. Finally, Tracy murmured, "You have talent."

It wasn't so much what she said, really, but how she said it. Like it was an apology. Like it was unfortunate. He didn't understand her at all. She was so incredibly…_cool_ sometimes, to use her word. And then…

"Let me guess," he said. He didn't have to ask. He knew instinctively what was bothering her. "Quartermaines don't _do_ music."

"Nonsense," she said harshly. "We are very generous patrons of the arts."

He'd learned very quickly, a long time ago, that it was never a good thing to say anything critical about the Quartermaines in front of his mother. It didn't bother her at all to demolish the Ashtons any chance she got, but heaven forbid the precious Quartermaine name got sullied even for a moment. He glared at her as he played, flubbing a chord, which only made him glare all that harder.

"My mother has a lovely singing voice," she added softly.

"So do you," he whispered.

Her eyebrows shot up straight into her hairline. "I most certainly do _not_!" Her voice was a full half-octave higher than usual.

"You do! I've heard you singing, and you're good. Why are you so bloody embarrassed by it? What is wrong with music?" He felt his own voice rising, both in pitch and volume. They'd been having such a lovely trip. Why did it have to go bad now? "What's so wrong with music, Mother? You love it. It's obvious. You know every ruddy song that's ever been written, and all of the words to them. You bought music before you bought _food_ for this trip, and yet you act like it's something to be ashamed of."

"Music is fine…in its place."

"Music is everything, Mother," he said, stunned at his own vehemence. In a heartbeat, he knew it was true. Music was all he cared about, aside from his parents. Music made everything right, made everything good. How could she not understand that?

She sighed, shaking her head. "Edward, there is a responsibility that comes with being a Quartermaine. You are the eldest grandson. Your Uncle Alan has completely shirked his duties towards our family by going into medicine." The venom and disgust in her voice surprised him. He'd never heard her mother speak ill about any of the Quartermaines, although the subject of Uncle Alan's career choice had never really come up. "You are the male heir. You can't waste your time dreaming about rock and roll, Baby. One day, you're going to take over ELQ, just as your grandfather would want you to."

"But what about what I want, Mum?" He knew he sounded like a spoiled child. He knew blokes from school who had their entire lives planned for them, down to their potential brides and future homes. He was lucky, in a way. But he couldn't help feeling angry and annoyed with his mother—who was so Bohemian in some of her ideas—for falling into this trap. "Don't you think I should have some say in it? You want me to have an opinion on dinner, on art, on where I go to school. You want me to have opinions on politics, on industry, on sports. Don't you think I should have an opinion on what I want to do with the rest of my life?" He knew for certain that he sounded like a pouting three year old, but he didn't care. "Maybe I don't _want_ to be the heir to stupid ELQ."

"Of course you do!"

"If it's so bloody fantastic, why don't _you_ take over the damned company?"

"Edward, ELQ is your legacy, your birthright, your future. Music," she said coldly, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. "Is _not_ a career."

He'd never admitted it, even to himself, but he'd known since the first time he'd held that guitar that he wanted to make music his life's work. He wanted to be surrounded by it, wrapped it in forty, fifty, sixty hours a week if need be. He wanted to create it and be created by it, whole and unique and spontaneous.

It was as if she were seeing right through him. "Music is _not_ a career, Edward," she repeated firmly.

"Tell that to Buddy Holly."

"Buddy Holly is dead, Ned. And so are Mozart and all those other brilliant, talented people who lived pathetic lives of squalor and poverty, just in the hopes of achieving immortality. For every Mozart, for every Buddy Holly and Elvis and Shostakovich, there were thousands, maybe millions of equally talented people who never got rich, never got famous. They just worked and scraped by and died, leaving nothing of importance to anybody." She shook her head ardently. "That is _not_ a life for my son.".

"I don't want to be immortal, Mum. I don't care about being rich or famous. I just want to make music."

"You're being ridiculous." She shook her head fiercely, not sounding like herself at all, not sounding like anyone he'd ever met before. "You can't play around with this foolishness forever. You have to look at the big picture, at your future, and your duty as a Quartermaine."

"I'm an _Ashton_, Mum," he said viciously in his most British tones, knowing it would hurt her and not caring one whit. "And I don't give a damn about my duty as a Quartermaine."

The silence that followed was physically painful to endure. He put the guitar in the back seat of the Lincoln, no longer even wanting to see it, much less play it. He couldn't look at his mother. She seemed hideous to him, an ogre, a tyrant. She played at being decent and loving, but that was only when she got exactly what she wanted. Disagree with her even slightly, and she bared her fangs.

"So, that's what it means to be a Quartermaine, is it?" he said sullenly. "Give up your dreams? Do as you're told? Shove every bit of yourself down into a little box and become exactly what is expected of you?"

"Yes," she said, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

"Bollocks," he hissed. With a glare at her, he added, "What did _you_ give up, Mother? What part of _you_ did you shove into a little box to be exactly what they wanted you to be?"

His mother didn't answer. She just tightened her jaw, tightened her grip on the wheel, and drove on in silence. They didn't speak again until they'd crossed the border into Austria, and barely a word after that as the finished the trip to Salzburg.

The sun was down when they got to her house in Salzburg. Gerthe, the aging housekeeper who apparently came with the lease, was waiting for them when they arrived. She began rattling off something in German, but Tracy waved her off with a tired frown and that harsh tone she generally reserved for very slow or very dull people. "English, Gerthe. I'm in no mood to fight with twenty-syllable words tonight." Without letting the older speak, she continued as she walked through the foyer, tossing her purse on the table near the door. "My son Edward will need his room made. We've very tired from our journey and don't want to be disturbed, so make sure the phones are turned off as soon as you have his room done."

"Frau Ashton…" the woman tried, only to be stopped by a withering glare from his mother. "Excuse me," she corrected. "_Miss Tracy_, there is packages you must…"

"Oh, not tonight, for crying out loud. I'll do my mail in the morning." She was pulling the tie out of her hair; she'd worn it pulled back while driving, and now it fell in messy locks around her shoulders.

"Herr Thompson has—"

"I'll call him in the morning, Gerthe." She turned brushed her fingers through her hair, flipping it casually over her shoulders as she stretched.

Ned hovered just inside the doorway, still too angry at his mother to speak, and far too angry to ask her what he was supposed to do. The house—what he saw of it—was an eclectic mixture of the old and the new--modern furniture, a huge fireplace on the far side of the room, carved wood railings on the stairs going to the second floor. It wasn't very large. Of course not. She'd chosen it for one person—herself. No doubt the thought of him being there had never even occurred to her when she—

"Edward, your room is upstairs; the second door on the right. If you're hungry, Gerthe can make you something to eat. We have breakfast at eight am. I expect you dressed and there."

With that, she was gone. Not a word of welcome. Not a word of apology.

Just go to your room and don't be late for breakfast.

He turned to Gerthe, who looked him up and down slowly. "Those your things?" she said, indicating his knapsack and guitar case. When he nodded, she hefted them both without giving him the chance to object and started up the spiraled staircase. "Follow me." It was a long-suffering voice, one he could now begin to appreciate.

His room was small, but comfortable. It had that generic look most people gave their guest bedrooms—not overtly suited to one gender or another, so that anyone would feel at home. There was a double bed in a sturdy wooden frame, very Old World. It matched the dresser and bureau. The comforter and drapes also matched—warm colors, tasteful. Gerthe showed him his cupboard--_closet_--and private bath. Then she left him alone with the promise of dinner if he wanted it. He thanked her but decided against eating.

He didn't want to see his mother right now, much less let her know that he was famished. He had a stash of Swiss chocolate in his bag that he could raid if he got too hungry. He was content to be stubborn and antisocial, as long as she was the same way.

He toddled into the bath; he wanted to wash the grime of the journey off. He turned on the faucet and let the hot water filled the claw-foot tub. There were bottles of shampoo, two or three varieties of soaps to choose from, and thick towels the color of deep forest leaves. He peeked in the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of scented bubbles. Rolling his eyes, he thought, What the hell? He twisted off the cap and poured a hefty thumb full of the stuff into the water, waiting as the bubbles formed a thick foam on the top of the water. Then he eased into the steaming hot bath, slowly lowering himself until he was completely submerged.

The damned bubbles smelled like gardenias.

He took his time with the bath, ignoring the flowery scent and scrubbing hard at his chest and arms, his legs and feet. He resisted the urge to indulge in, well… He wasn't quite _that_ at home just yet. Instead, he chose to just lie back, his toes playing with the rounded metal faucet, fingers making shapes with the bubbles as he let himself relax.

Let himself think.

He was absolutely certain that his mother was wrong about his music. He knew that, given enough time, he could make her understand what it meant to him, how important it was. He knew that ELQ was important to her, but what good would it be for him to take over the family business if his heart wasn't in it? If she'd taught him nothing over the last week, it was that you had to live life the way you were meant to.

The question came back to him as the hot water relaxed his temper as well as his muscles. What _had_ she given up? There were so many contradictions about his mother. She was nothing like the viper his grandmother described, but she also wasn't completely the free-spirit she'd presented herself to be when they first left Chatham.

There was a hard edge to his mother, a razor-like sharpness he never saw coming and rarely enjoyed experiencing, even as a witness. Weakness appalled her. Sentimentality embarrassed her. Yet, she had the most tender streak of any person he'd ever met—when she was sure no one was paying attention.

Who was his real mother? The woman who held him when he cried, or the hard-nosed harpy who waved off her housekeeper like a bug?

It made his head hurt and, for the first time, he wondered if he'd been better off at Chatham, away from his mother, away from her ideas of right and wrong and duty. She talked about a progressive school, but for what? To learn to run a business he knew or cared nothing about? To become some drone in a suit who never had fun, never did anything spontaneous or exciting?

The water was cold long before he gave up looking for answers, and his muscles protested stiffly as he pulled himself out of the bath at last. Still, the water and soap had done their magic, and he felt calmer and more willing to face the risk of going downstairs for something to eat. He didn't want to bother the housekeeper, though. He'd just nip something out of the kitchen, whatever was lying about.

He pulled on his pajamas and slippers, grabbing a robe at last thought. He'd never lived with ladies before, and didn't really fancy an embarrassing encounter with Gerthe in his night-clothes.

When he got to the kitchen, his mother was there, sitting at an enormous oak table. She looked up from the mug of tea she was sipping—he could smell that it was peppermint, not proper British tea. He doubted she'd ever do anything in a proper British manner again, if she'd ever done so in the past.

He expected a frown, but she just looked up tiredly, her expression bland and sad. She was wearing a robe, too, and her hair was damp and straight down her shoulders. "Looks like we both had the same idea," she said, indicating his mop of wet brown hair.

"Yeah," he said. The tea smelled good, and kicked in a sympathetic reaction from his stomach. He blushed when it growled loudly.

"If you want me to get Gerthe…"

"No, please," he said. "I just wanted something to nibble." The tension between them was thick, and the growling in his stomach only made him feel worse. "I'm not all that hungry."

She smiled at him, pushing her chair back to stand. "Uh-huh," she said. "Sit. I'll find you some—"

"No, I can manage. You're tired from the drive." He moved forward to pull out her chair just as she was moving forward to take his arm. They half-collided, awkward, stumbling over themselves and their feelings.

Finally, Tracy sighed. "We are just too tired and cranky for civilized company, aren't we?"

"Absolutely," he agreed. When she caught his eye, there was a spark there, a glint of that humor he'd seen so abundantly on the trip from England. He flashed her a lopsided grin. "We should come with warning labels."

"Oh, definitely." She was chuckling now, and after a moment's hesitation, she reached out an arm for him.

He hesitated, too. He didn't want her thinking that a hot bath would change what he wanted out of life. But he didn't want to fight with her, either. She was right. They were both exhausted, both more than a little shell-shocked from the enormous changes in their lives. It wasn't fair to keep fighting like this without even trying to be civil.

She had her arms open, and he started to move into them. In a heartbeat, he changed his mind and took her hand, pulling her to him, wrapping _her_ in the embrace instead of the other way around. He swore he heard her sigh as she let herself relax against him.

"You know, we can't continue like this. We're very different people, Mother. I suspect you don't like to hear that, but…" Ned paused, looking into her face for a moment. "I cannot imagine that stubbornness is solely a Quartermaine trait."

She laughed, shaking her head. "No, you get it from both sides, I'm afraid."

"Then," he said solemnly. "We're going to have to learn to disagree without tearing each other apart. Either that, or we will drive each other mad."

Tracy cocked her head to one side. "How old are you again?"

"Thirteen, Mother. You should know that."

"If we were Jewish, I'd throw you a bar mitzvah right about now." She had a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "I always _knew_ our WASP heritage would be a problem sooner or later. All the good rituals belong to the more ethnic groups." She winked at him, still wrapped in his embrace, her smile dazzling. "You are nothing like I expected, Ned. You are smarter, wiser, finer, and more decent than you have a right to be, given your genetic make-up."

"I did okay," he said. He wished he could have a week with his father, just the two of them, to get to know him like he was beginning to know his mother. Maybe he was as much a bastard as she said he was. Or maybe he was just like Tracy—more complex than his detractors could ever imagine.

One thing he knew for certain, he had an extraordinary journey before him. It would take a lifetime, and probably years of therapy, before he could really say he knew his mother. Unraveling her, figuring out what caused those astounding contradictions, would be one of the most intriguing puzzles he could ever ask for.

"You know what I gave up?" His mother was whispering, as if she were afraid the chairs and table might eavesdrop, reveal her secret to an unkind world.

"I shouldn't have asked that…"

"I wanted ELQ. From the time I was a little girl, all I wanted was to go to work with my father, to learn what he did, to be as smart and powerful and respected as he was." She frowned. "That wasn't really in the cards for me, Baby. Quartermaine women, I have learned, are expected to be wives. Not CEOs." Her eyes clouded over, and she shrugged against him. She didn't seem even slightly ready to let go of him, or to let him let go of her. "I married. I had a baby. I played my part. And it didn't work out."

"You could still do it, Mother. You could go into business, build your own ELQ…"

"Your grandfather has very serious reservations about my ability to function in the business world," she said.

"Grandfather Quartermaine obviously has never heard of the sexual revolution," he snorted.

"Obviously!" But she laughed, and nudged slightly out of his arms. It was funny—just the name 'Quartermaine' was enough to cause a distance between them, even if only a slight one. "But I do know this. No matter what your grandfather says, no matter how much he tries to bully me, I'm going to live my life on my own terms from now on. I have my own money, I have my son, I have opportunities most people couldn't even dream of. And I fully intend to use them to make a better life for you and me, kiddo."

"I think that's a wonderful thing, Mother." His stomach grumbled again, loudly and with a new sense of urgency, much to his chagrin.

"_I think_ we need to get some food in your stomach before you pass out."

They parted, each padding in their slippers towards the refrigerator. She pulled out meat and mustard, pointing him to where Gerthe kept the bread. Before long, they had thick roast beef sandwiches on German rye, along with huge glasses of milk and cold potatoes from dinner. They sat quietly at the table, each lost in their own thought as they ate.

Suddenly, Ned asked, "Who's Herr Thompson?"

"Huh?"

"When we got here, Gerthe mentioned something about Herr Thompson." He frowned, not liking the feeling that came over him. "Is he your boyfriend?"

Tracy laughed out loud, throwing her head back gaily as she did so. "Oh, Ned! I'm sorry. I didn't expect that."

"He's _not_ your boyfriend?"

"Benjamin Thompson is my accountant. I suppose he wants to talk to me about the finances—your father and I are in the process of figuring out who gets what, and unfortunately, that included a full audit of our financial holdings. It's been a nightmare getting everything straightened out after so many years of marriage. He probably wants the receipts for our trip, tightwad that he is." She smiled at him. "You have nothing to worry about, though. I've got plenty of money. We'll be just fine."

"I'm not worried about that," he said. "So he's _not_ your boyfriend?"

Tracy laughed again. "No, Baby. Mr. Thompson, homosexual octogenarian that he is, is definitely _not_ my boyfriend." She paused, sobering a little at Ned's pensive expression. "Listen, kiddo. You don't have to worry about all that right now. I've been married since ten seconds after I turned eighteen. I have no intentions of rushing into another marriage right now. I want to be Tracy for a while, instead of Mrs. Somebody, ya know?"

"I know…" He didn't know why, but that made him feel much better. It would be good for both of them, learning a new way of life together. Maybe he'd spend time with his father. Maybe he'd even get to know this amazing grandfather of his that Tracy was so enamored of. But she was right—there was no rush now. They had money. They had time. All they had to do was make the best of it, and learn how to become a new kind of family. "I think that you're making a very wise decision, Mother. And maybe Grandfather is wrong. Maybe once you stop spending all your efforts at being someone's wife and start applying it to what really matters to you, maybe you'll become an even better CEO than he ever dreamed of being."

"You think?"

"Mother, anything is possible." He lifted his glass to his lips, and paused. "All we have to do is stick together, and I believe we can achieve anything."

She smiled at him, and for a moment there such love in her eyes. "Oh, who cares if we're not Jewish?" She lifted her own glass in toast, her expression soft and warm. "My son, today you are a man," Tracy said solemnly, and they toasted their future together.

Written for the lj user"100situations" Challenge.

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